


What We Could Become

by pardonmeforasking



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian fighting with his upbringing, Dorian's Inner Monologue, Dorian's POV, Fem!Adaar is a gem, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Poor Cullen, References to Addiction, Skyhold is my muse, chess is a wonderful way to fall in love, like v mild, literally most of this is Dorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 18:08:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12563188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pardonmeforasking/pseuds/pardonmeforasking
Summary: Skyhold in winter was a sight to behold. The snow embraced the stone walls, and the lights glimmered in the weak winter sunlight. It felt as though the whole world had stopped turning and the air had come to a standstill, the biting cold a small inconvenience for this beautiful picture. Skyhold in winter was a place where regret was not an option, and where the cogs of fate were set into motion.





	What We Could Become

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've written a proper story, and even longer since I've played Dragon Age. I've taken liberties with the characters and the situations in which they find themselves, please don't be mad at me. But there's nothing like a couple of wonderful male characters with rich backstories to get the creative juices flowing. Enjoy. 
> 
> (Small warning for slight references to Cullen's lyrium addiction and Dorian's homophobic upbringing, just in case.)

Dorian can see his breath extending in front of him and the fog swallowing it into the blank, misty expanse enveloping him. His hand is nearly stuck to the ice it is resting upon and if it wasn’t for the heat swirling at his fingertips he would have lost the skin on his palm to the elements. This is where he can think, standing on the walls interweaving above the machinations of the Inquisition and watching the activity or lack thereof go on below him. On this day, he can see nothing except snow and fog as far as the eye can see. He can hear a faint laugh and his own heartbeat.

His mind is refreshingly blank at the moment. Neither Alexius nor Felix seem to have any place in his thoughts; they have been replaced by vague magical theory, thoughts of the places the Inquisition has taken and will take him, and a gnawing gap in the side of his ribs that threatens to bully him until the end of his days. None of these things are enough to consume his reverie. Not one thing at this precise moment is enough to shake Dorian Pavus nor perplex him. The ice on his palm is only a minor distress, and a simple spell would be enough to melt it into oblivion and leave it trickling down to the lower levels of this expansive stronghold.

He sighs and extends the fingers of his left hand in front of him, inspecting the crags of his palm and the small flames flickering across them. If he extended his hand any further, it would be swallowed up by the fog and then perhaps he would forget it existed.

Dorian shakes his head and snatches his hand back. He cannot afford that type of maudlin thought at such a time as this. Maudlin thought like that got him almost to a point where he would accept a blood ritual to make him a mindless, conforming vegetable like his father wanted. Maudlin thought like that got him into one too many compromising positions at Imperium parties, where anyone could have walked in and watched Dorian Pavus disgrace his own house and name without a blink of his eye. He wouldn’t have cared, back then. He would have been content to think his maudlin thoughts until he died. And even though now he still wouldn’t care if someone found him in a compromising position, he can no longer afford maudlin thoughts. Now he has the Inquisition, and Adaar, and many other people to think about, and to live for.

Adaar is a being he’d never thought he’d meet. An unapologetic Tal-Vashoth, taller than him and with a wickedly beautiful smile, not at all like the horror stories of brutes and beasts the other Tevinter children had spoken of when the Qunari came up in conversation. She had blown into his life, trusted him to save her, and dragged him back to Skyhold without any preamble or meaningless chat. She flirted like a menace and didn’t bat an eyelash even when pointing out he’d been leading her on, when the truth came spilling out of his mouth as a ‘fuck you’ to his father. Waving off his apologies, she had just offered to carry on flirting anyway and he’d loved it. A Qunari like he’d never experienced. The Iron Bull was just the icing on the cake for her, and the first night they’d walked past Dorian with Adaar jokingly slung over Bull’s shoulder and both of them giggling as they made their way to her quarters was the night Dorian decided he would believe in mutual attraction beyond sex.

Tevinter had never accepted him, and probably never would. It beat the idea that men couldn’t love other men beyond their bodies savagely into him. Men’s minds were not compatible in the way that men and women’s minds were, they would say. To fall in love with a man was to live a lie, a half-fulfilled dream that would never provide the same satisfaction loving a soft, beautiful woman would. Never mind women falling in love with women.

Thanks to that, Dorian had gone through the first thirty plus years of his life never allowing himself to feel the warmth and happiness that threatened to blossom in him around others. He forced it to become small and cold in the pit of his stomach, even when lying with someone, never allowing himself to become lax and pliable. It was always a short affair and Dorian didn’t allow himself to be seen in the pale rising sunlight. He would leave with ice in his veins.

That was then. Things had changed; he had changed. Skyhold had provided him a new purpose, and it had also carved new grooves into his personality and smoothed out others. He was still the same witty, sharp-tongued, confusing Dorian he had always been, but now occasionally he allowed his heart to open, to warm the frozen air that once surrounded him. He was allowing himself to feel properly for the first time, allowing the warmth and happiness to bloom free and wind its vines around his body, to consume him, even when he hated it and wanted nothing more than for it to wither and die. The cold air bit at his exposed skin, barely held back by the warm conjured from his fingertips, but these feelings coiled around him like a docile yet protective snake. It was no longer a weakness Tevinter was determined to beat out of him, but a protective armour designed to withstand the frozen disease Tevinter had tried to infect him with.

Watching Adaar and Bull make no secrets about what they were or how they felt towards each other, during this time of all times, had changed a lot of people in Skyhold. Not just Dorian. He knew, for example, that Sera could often now be found on the roof sharing cookies with one of Leliana’s spies, and that Krem would always hold a candle for Cassandra even if she didn’t know his name. _Bloody scary woman_ , he would say, clutching a tankard of ale and his eyes hazy with infatuation, _just how I like them_. Josephine was always popular with the Orlesian nobles and wasn’t too scathing to all of them, and Vivienne often wrote long and informed letters she sent at the dead of night. Blackwall had a sweetheart somewhere, surely. Varric had Bianca.

And then there was Cullen.

Dorian melts the ice on the wall a little, and rests his hands on the now warm stone. Oh, Cullen. Forever regarding Dorian with that unreadable look on his face, as though he couldn’t work out what Dorian was or what he was doing there. Cullen, who had apparently only ever known the company of one or two women and was still so wracked with guilt, grief and pain that any sort of affection was twisted in him until it was unrecognisable and all he could do was stare. Dorian knew that feeling, at least. He’d twisted so many romantic attachments within himself when he was back at home that it was a wonder he was able to straighten out anything in his mind.

Not that Dorian minded Cullen’s gaze, subtle as he tried to make it. Nobody else seemed to notice at least, not even Sera who was usually the most adept at picking up social cues and turning them into comedic opportunities. Unless she had magically learnt the art of sensitivity. Between Dorian’s pernickety observations and Sera’s ill-advised commentary, Cullen had gained a few extra lines on his normally good-natured face, so perhaps Sera for once had thought it prudent to keep her mouth shut. Or, by some favour of the south’s favourite deity Andraste, she just genuinely hadn’t noticed.

Or Dorian was making it up. There was that. Dorian had often assumed affection where none had materialised, and had risked being seriously maimed or killed if it wasn’t for an intervention or appearance of a close friend. His remarks tended to hit too close to home, which is why he was often careful, if hardly restrained, in his jokes around Cullen. Better to be a Tevinter mage under constant suspicion from the whole of Skyhold than an apostate chucked out into the cold by the wrath of an offended commander of the most powerful military force this side of the Blight. Even the Grey Wardens regarded Cullen with a combination of apprehension and respect.

Cullen was a force of nature in work, which made him so much softer in relaxation. Dorian had a healthy appreciation for a pink-cheeked Cullen, laughing at one of Varric’s more saucy tales, sipping at a half-full tankard of ale, his laugh lines crinkling. Or a focused Cullen, deep in competition with Dorian during their chess games. It made a change from the tortured Cullen grappling with his lyrium withdrawal, or the cold-faced Cullen dealing with simpering Orlesian nobles intent on groping him in the guise of a dance. Even Dorian, who had years-worth of experience with terrible parties and had a poker face like a slab of stone, had to sympathise with that. The episode at the Winter Palace couldn’t have been easy for Cullen, but he bore it like a champion which was yet another of the many reasons Dorian respected him. It was jarring having so many admirers all at once when before there were none, but Cullen bore it with a flustered and adorable silence.

Dorian sighs once again, and rubs a cool hand over his face, smoothing out his moustache in the process. The fog shows no signs of abating and he knows he should be back in the tavern, drinking ale and laughing with Adaar at the tales of their latest mission. Leliana would stroll by smiling slightly, perhaps with one of her ravens perched on her shoulder. Bull would pick Dorian up and twirl him around, pretending to use him as a staff. Krem would crack an ill-advised joke, and Varric would hide a smirk behind his tankard. Blackwall would let his eyes twinkle in an otherwise impassive face, and Vivienne would stay for one drink and then fervently deny she was there the next day. Those were his people.

And yet Dorian stays where he is, his hands resting on the cooling wall, staring out into the blank expanse and filling in the landscape he knew was there behind the blanket of fog. The crags of the mountains beyond Skyhold, the rising and falling of the fortress itself as corridors, rooms and halls wove in and out of the layered brickwork. Impenetrable, whilst simultaneously falling to pieces. Dorian didn’t like identifying with inanimate objects normally, didn’t really see the point, but he can’t help but feel a certain kinship with the old fortress. They were both holding themselves together with a combination of magic and constant combat.

When the fog clears up, Dorian thinks, that will be when Skyhold will be at its most glorious. Skyhold in winter was a sight to behold. The snow embraced the stone walls, and the lights glimmered in the weak winter sunlight. It felt as though the whole world had stopped turning and the air had come to a standstill, the biting cold a small inconvenience for this beautiful picture. Skyhold in winter was a place where regret was not an option, and where the cogs of fate were set into motion. Even now, Dorian can feel the power surging through this place, all the soldiers, mages, Templars, wardens, rogues each contributing a slice of their skill into a formidable force for when the time comes. In his heart of hearts, Dorian cannot wait until the full power of Skyhold is unleashed.

However, for all the sheer magnitude of Skyhold, it is near impossible to be alone for any longer than half an hour. Even Dorian, who often sequesters himself in his library alcove, is never alone for very long. Solas often makes trips in and out to ask him for books or is downstairs; Leliana comes looking for advice; Cassandra spends longer than necessary trying to look for useful material and instead finds old tomes to take to Varric for inspiration. And even up here, a fair few ladder and stair climbs away, a door perhaps five metres from Dorian swings open and someone steps out, wrapped in furs.

Dorian does not remove his eyes from the fog as the other person walks out onto the gangway, barely perceiving him through the fog. He can almost hear the cogs in their head turning as they step towards him, and it mustn’t take very long for them to figure out who it is. He hardly cuts a subtle figure in his skin revealing outfit, but anything that grants him more motion is something he appreciates. Being a mage often means wearing explanation-defying gear, but he doesn’t mind a few more appreciative gazes in exchange for not dying. He hates when people try to kill him, it’s mightily rude, and when he’s in the mood he doesn’t mind being stared at by some of the most attractive soldiers this side of the Waking Sea.

“Ah, Dorian,” the other person says, revealing themselves to be none other than Commander of the Inquisition Ser Cullen Stanton (Dorian chuckled when he heard that at the Winter Palace) Rutherford himself. He draws up beside Dorian and leans against the wall, his rapidly reddening nose the only sign he is cold, “what on earth are you doing out here in this blasted weather?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Dorian smiles, turning to face Cullen and his warm brown eyes, and Cullen shakes his head in mild exasperation, shaking out a few rogue dewdrops from his blond hair. He often regards Dorian with this same exasperation, tempered by a strange sort of intrigue, and Dorian subsequently feels like he’s being evaluated like a battle requiring a genius tactical manoeuvre rather than looked at as an actual person.

Cullen settles upon his response. “Do you always answer a question with a question?” and now Dorian knows they are where they usually stand. Brothers in arms, friends, bonded over tactics in chess and a healthy and friendly appreciation for Adaar and the rest of the mishmashed gang that makes up the Inquisitor’s inner circle. Dorian can guess what hovers under Cullen’s eyes when he watches Dorian at any given moment, and he knows Cullen is often tuned into his mood. But it has never been spoken about, and usually Dorian is in no shape to think about it.

But tonight, Dorian is tired of hiding behind fog. He has allowed the warmth he repelled before to begin to consume him, and Cullen constantly holding himself a sensible distance from Dorian whilst projecting the feeling that he’d rather be a lot closer has stretched Dorian to what could conceivably be his breaking point. Considering normally Dorian would have attempted to take him to bed and callously pushed him away by now, he thinks he’s been mightily restrained. They’ve swapped stories of family over chess, Cullen speaking candidly of his childhood and less candidly about the events at Kirkwall, and after Adaar had taken Dorian to his father Cullen had teased the story of an unhappy childhood, of concealment and threats of blood magic out of Dorian over the board until his eyes had been wet and Cullen’s hand had been a comforting presence on his shoulder. They know each other’s personal secrets. They know each other perfectly well, but it’s no longer enough for Dorian.

He huffs, and melts the ice around where Cullen is leaning, pouring some warmth into the stones and taking some mild satisfaction at the way Cullen’s eye widen in surprise. “It’s one of my specialties Commander, but seeing as it perplexes you, I shall give a straight answer instead of one of my customary witty jokes. I come here to think.”

Cullen looks out over the fog-concealed fort, his eyes suddenly far away. “I can see why,” he replies, “that’s why I chose for my quarters to be up here. So much easier to get away from the hustle and bustle even if the climb can be hell sometimes,” and he gestures towards the tower he had come from, “I see you sometimes. I guess tonight I thought I’d come and bother you.”

Dorian battens down the hatches on the laughter threatening to erupt from his throat. Obviously, he would manage to unconsciously co-ordinate where he came to think with an object of affection’s quarters. He almost wants to tell Varric about it, in the hopes he’ll write it into one of his tatty romance books so Cassandra et al can swoon over it. Dorian enjoys the thought of telling Cassandra that she may have wept over a story inspired by him.

A smile must have erupted on his face, because a small cough brings him back to reality and to Cullen, who is mirroring the smile with his own, charming rendition. Dorian doesn’t know how he does it, but Cullen seems to be the human embodiment of a Ferelden honeypot despite the bulky armour and large sword. He wonders if, in another life, Cullen would have been one of those knights paraded around countries and used to inspire men and women to fight, rather than a Commander of the Inquisition and an ex-Templar standing on the foggy battlements alone with a mage whose magic he used to detest, to fear.

Speaking of which. “It doesn’t bother you to be alone in such an isolated place, with a mage?” Dorian asks, and Cullen’s face hardens slightly where his eyes soften. A paradoxical and yet entirely justifiable reaction. He wants to hide his expression but instead transfers it to his eyes. Bull had spoken about reactions like this at length when he regaled Dorian with his tales of the Ben-Hassrath. _When it’s a hostile target, you give them what they want. When it’s someone you care about, you give them what they need._ What did Cullen need at this moment? Dorian angles his body away slightly, giving Cullen space to cultivate a reaction.

It takes him a moment, but finally Cullen is ready to speak. “No,” he says finally, “because I know I can trust you. Being alone with you here, it’s no different from being alone with you in the courtyard playing chess. Although it is bloody freezing up here,” he adds, the smile back and the guarded expression lost. He moves slightly into Dorian’s space, the space he’d originally given him. When it’s someone you care about…

Dorian is surprised by that. Normally Cullen keeps enough distance for Andraste between them, and it’s Dorian leaning into the space or making ill-advised movements. He is almost speechless, but manages to keep himself in check enough to form words instead of moving his mouth voicelessly like a gargoyle. Maker’s breath, Cullen would say, this is a change from the normally witty and prepared Dorian. He wants to curse hypothetical Cullen.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Dorian says, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “after all that messiness at Kirkwall I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d sworn off mages forever. But that would have been inconvenient, Adaar being a mage and all. Can’t really be a Commander if you’re locked in your rooms, petrified of the Inquisitor herself.”

Cullen shakes his head, “you know, I was rather taken with her when she first came, mage and all.” He rolls his eyes at himself, and Dorian clutches at the wall because he’d obviously slipped slightly thank you very much and would never admit he finds Cullen doing anything even remotely sarcastic extremely attractive, “and I suppose her being around and so very, you know-”

“Taking no shits,” Dorian supplies and Cullen laughs, a full-bodied sound that echoes off the walls.

“Yes, you could say that. But I’d also learnt to begin accepting mages by that point. Adaar really just broke the ice. And having you around,” Cullen gestures vaguely in Dorian’s direction, “probably helped too. I could finally be myself around mages and not have to keep them in check or terrorise them into submission. Ha, you know,” and the smile is back and Dorian smiles back automatically, “the Hero of Ferelden came from my original Circle, Kinloch Hold. The day after her Harrowing, she flirted with me. I suppose I’ve always had a soft spot for mages.”

Cullen’s expression softens, he looks off into the uncompromising fog, and Dorian feels a fire start in the pit of his stomach. He’d always had a distant admiration for the Hero of Ferelden, and hearing Cullen knew her in the early days only serves to further his interest.

“You knew the Hero of Ferelden?” he can’t help himself but ask, and when Cullen turns back from the fog his eyes are sad and full of pain.

“A long time ago,” he replies, “As you probably know she died killing the Archdemon. Apparently King Alistair’s never been the same since. She was one of a kind.”

Dorian’s mouth twists unhappily. King Alistair had been an uncompromising man the one time he had met him. Of course, it would make sense that he felt guilt for the death of the Hero, considering he was a Grey Warden and could have prevented her death by sacrificing himself. But she was the hero. It was her duty.

It clicked into place.

“They were in love, weren’t they? And you loved her?” Dorian asks softly, and Cullen closes his eyes.

“Oh Andraste, yes. She saved my life at Kinloch. Another mage took over the Circle, and started changing all the mages into Abominations, and I was tortured to within an inch of my life,” and Dorian can’t help himself. He reaches out and puts his hand over Cullen’s, who clutches at his fingers.

Cullen rubs his free hand over his eyes and sighs. “I was half-crazed, in tremendous pain and ready to kill her and any other mage that came near me, because I swore she was an illusion and couldn’t be the woman I had secretly dreamt about for years. I begged them to kill the rest of the mages. Alistair almost ran me through, but she stopped him with a look. She pleaded with me and with him, and the look he gave her was almost like worship. I knew then if I touched one hair on either of their heads, the other would obliterate me before I could even ask Andraste for forgiveness. I owe them both my life but I doubt King Alistair even remembers who I am.”

All Dorian can do for a minute is hold Cullen’s hand and let his tension flow through their fingers until he has visibly relaxed. “I’m so sorry that happened to you Cullen,” he says finally, giving his fingers one last squeeze, “but I’m glad you survived. Skyhold would be utterly dull and ugly without you brightening it up.”

Cullen gives another small huff, and looks at Dorian through his lashes. It’s that same look Dorian thought was perplexed, but now he realises instead it’s more like a singular wonder. It pierces Dorian to his core, and stays behind his eyelids even when Cullen has schooled his features into something else. “So am I,” he says softly, “come on, come with me. You must be freezing. We’ll get a fire started, you’re good at that.”

Without breaking their hands, Cullen leads a speechless Dorian to his quarters and waves him up the ladder. Dorian starts the fire whilst Cullen pokes amongst his bookshelves, finally pulling out a bottle of wine. “I don’t have any glasses,” he explains apologetically, setting the bottle on the desk, “you don’t mind sharing, do you? I’m perfectly well.”

And so, they share a bottle of wine with unspoken words hanging in the air. Dorian can’t stop thinking about how both of their mouths have been on this bottle but not each other and if Cullen doesn’t stop looking at him like that under the starlight streaming through the windows and with the soft crackling of the fire in the background, Dorian is going to do something ill-advised and selfish.

Instead he doesn’t do anything but drink and steadfastly study the impressive collection on the bookshelves, and if he gulps a little more wine down than he should each time he gets the bottle, Cullen doesn’t say anything about it. He instead sets the empty bottle down, before turning and examining some papers on his desk as though Dorian isn’t even there.

Dorian feels like he’s about to explode. Every inch of his skin is tingling, and even though he can hold his drink perfectly well and he knows Cullen can too, he feels slightly drunk off something in the air. The room is perfectly warm and perfectly proportioned, but still Dorian feels too big for his skin, too aware that if he steps two metres to the right there’s a door that swings open straight into Cullen’s bedroom. He eyes Cullen’s ramrod-straight spine, the tension in his shoulders, and he realises he is waiting for him to say something.

“So,” Dorian begins, and Cullen visibly relaxes, “what do we do now? We could play some chess, or we could,” he lets his voice trail off, just a hint of suggestion in his voice, and Cullen grips the desk like a lifeline.

“I like you Dorian,” he begins, his voice strained, and Dorian knows if he looked Cullen’s eyes would be shut, “probably more than I should. I mean,” he laughs awkwardly, “a lot more than I should. I just want you to know if I ever made you uncomfortable, I apologise. But the Inquisitor,” he looks over his shoulder, and Dorian finally sees the sheepish look, “implied that if I didn’t tell you sometime soon she would tie us together and explain what was going on in explicit details. Possibly with pictures. I remonstrated that she was mistaken, but she seemed hell-bent on the fact she was not. So, I thought I would just let you know.”

Dorian smirks at that. He can imagine Adaar’s unbreakable grip on Cullen’s wrist, refusing to let him go until he promised he would tell Dorian how he felt. _Kaffas_ , he loves that woman more than anything in this world.

“Well,” Dorian finally says, and Cullen turns his head back and stares out of the window, “luckily for you, you’ve grown on me too. Adaar was not mistaken,” Dorian takes a step towards the desk, “and neither were you.”

Cullen’s right hand falls from the desk, and he rolls his head in the same fluid motion he instructs the soldiers to do every morning to relieve tension. “Oh, am I glad to hear that,” he says, and Dorian can barely stand to stay away from him. All this time, they’ve been sharing the hardest stories of their lives, smiling at each other over the chessboard, and Cullen has so obviously been wanting the same thing as Dorian. They’ve been dancing around each other, and even when Cullen was clutching onto Dorian’s hand and reliving his weakest, most painful moment he still thought Dorian didn’t feel the same way. Didn’t up until Dorian opened his mouth.

“Oh Cullen,” Dorian says softly, and bridges the gap between them, slotting himself into the gap Cullen has created between himself and the desk until he’s butting up right next to his left arm and they’re almost nose to nose, “how long has it been?”

Cullen looks at him with those molten brown eyes, places his right hand back on the desk to box Dorian in, and Dorian is enchanted. “How long have you known?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?” Dorian replies steadily, and Cullen’s mouth splits into a wide grin, his face lighting up. If Andraste herself came to Dorian right this second with her name written in ink on her forehead and without blinking told him Cullen was the human reincarnation of the sun Dorian would bloody well believe her with no questions asked.

“Ever since I saw you looking at me,” Dorian finally replies, and Cullen’s gaze shifts to out of the window, “you always looked so confused, as though you couldn’t figure out what I was doing there. I didn’t realise it was because-”

“I was trying to figure out how I felt about you,” Cullen’s eyes are back upon Dorian’s, “you seemed like something unreal. You were hardly an angel,” he adds ruefully, “always sharp edges and clever comments, but I knew deep down you wanted to help,” and Dorian can’t take it any longer. He makes to put his arm around Cullen’s neck and knocks the empty wine bottle off the edge of the desk.

The shattering shocks them both back to reality and a gasp is knocked out of Dorian’s throat before he can help himself. He turns back to Cullen expecting a judgemental look, but is instead met with a set jaw and darkening eyes. And before Dorian knows what’s happening, Cullen is sweeping the rest of his papers, his ink, his quills off the desk onto the floor and backing Dorian onto the surprisingly sturdy wood.

Dorian is left with his back flat on the desk, Cullen hovering over him and he can’t help himself. “How on earth is this piece of rubbish holding us?” he asks, and Cullen bursts out laughing, turning his head to the side to avoid spitting on Dorian, who is now smiling smugly. He tangles a hand in Cullen’s hair, and pulls his face towards his own.

Cullen raises his eyebrow, and doesn’t quite let their lips meet. “Like everything else in my life, sheer dumb luck I suppose,” he murmurs quietly, his breath warm on Dorian’s lips, and then they meet. Dorian will later shamelessly boast about it being the best kiss of his life, whilst Cullen shifts uncomfortably and looks suitably meek.

But for now, they just kiss, Cullen a comfortable weight on top of Dorian and the slightly more exuberant fire killing any cool air coming in from the various cracks in Skyhold’s walls. Dorian keeps one hand in Cullen’s hair and the other braced on his shoulder to keep him up, and Cullen’s hands are holding him up on either side of Dorian’s shoulders. It’s uncomfortable and Dorian thinks it’s utterly bloody romantic.

“Sorry Cullen,” a voice pierces the quiet, and Adaar throws the door open and walks right on in, completely oblivious to Cullen and Dorian’s twin expressions of shock, “but I just thought I’d come and- augh!” She stops in her tracks, her mouth twisting into a grin and Dorian can’t help but start to giggle. Cullen is flushed bright red and swings his leg over Dorian, hopping down to perch on the edge of the desk.

“Um,” he starts, “how can I help you, Inquisitor?” He rubs the back of his neck in that endearingly adorable way of his, and Dorian can’t help but reach out and sort his messy cape. Cullen coughs and fidgets automatically, but not away from Dorian’s touch.

Adaar just keeps smiling in that infuriating way of hers. “Bull owes me so much money. He thought it’d take you far longer! Anyway, it’s just to ask you, well both of you I suppose, if you wanted to come join us in the tavern as it’s not too late. But of course if you’re both busy,” she winks, “then feel free to swing by later. Everyone is coming! See you soon, have fun, don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” and with that she sweeps out of the room, leaving a faint smell of flowers and leather and an even fainter giggle.

Cullen sighs and rubs at his eyes, and Dorian can’t help but keep laughing.

“What’s so funny,” Cullen grumbles, “she’s going to tell everyone and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“What,” Dorian says, moving to sit next to Cullen, “scared your reputation will be besmirched by a dalliance with a dirty Tevinter mage?” He means it to come out lightly and it does but the hint of underlying bitterness makes him bite his lip.

To his credit, Cullen’s eyes turn sharp and focused. He reaches out and takes Dorian’s hand, threading their fingers together. “This isn’t just a dalliance,” he says forcefully, “and you’re not dirty. You’re the bravest man I know, and the best.”

“And the most handsome,” Dorian smiles proudly.

“And the most handsome,” Cullen echoes, going in for another kiss, this time a little gentler, “now, why don’t we take this somewhere we won’t be walked in on.”

Dorian lets himself be pulled into Cullen’s bedroom, and decides the time for debating whether or not he’s worthy of someone is over. If Adaar thinks he deserves Cullen, then he bloody well does. As he watches Cullen strip himself of his armour until he’s just in his underclothes, and does the same to himself, Dorian comes to an epiphany.

Both of them believed they didn’t deserve the other, or that the other didn’t feel the same way. He almost feels like crying, or laughing. Instead, he reaches out and helps Cullen pull his undershirt off and grazes his hand up his stomach, coming to rest it on Cullen’s face. Cullen puts his hand on Dorian’s hand and pulls him in for another kiss. Slowly, they back up until Cullen’s knees hit the bed and they go down.

The kiss breaks momentarily as they both laugh at the clumsiness but quickly resumes a little deeper, a little dirtier. Cullen’s hands snake round Dorian’s waist and they can both feel how hard the other is through the pathetically thin undergarments the poor seamstresses had to fashion after the disaster at Haven.

“Let’s dispense of these terrible things,” Dorian huffs, tugging his off, and Cullen just smiles before following suit and _dear Andraste if you exist thank you_. Dorian’s mouth goes dry.

“Commander,” he croaks, “underneath all that armour and fur you seem to have been holding out on me. How vexing.”

Cullen doesn’t blush or curl up all embarrassed as Dorian expects. He instead stretches out letting him get the full view, his lids heavy and his gaze not at all ashamed as it roams up and down Dorian. “As have you,” he responds, and it takes all Dorian has to not choke on his own spit and die happy. Although he’d rather stay alive and get his mouth on Cullen.

“You’re not as abashed as I thought you may be,” and he goes for Cullen’s neck, kissing up and down it softly and listening smugly as Cullen’s breath hitches momentarily.

“I, oh Maker preserve me, I sort of prepared for this day,” he admits, and there’s the blush finally, “I figured if I was going to finally sleep with someone, that, um, someone being you, I probably should attempt to not act like a blushing virgin.”

Dorian freezes. “You’re a virgin?” He trails a finger up Cullen’s muscled torso to his face, and wonders how on earth nobody could have bedded this before, “I heard rumours about women before.”

“Oh no, I’m not a virgin,” Cullen says, turning to nip at Dorian’s finger, “it’s just my first time with a man.”

Dorian almost collapses on top of Cullen in awe. “You prepared for this day exactly how,” he asks huskily, burying his face into Cullen’s neck and trying not to rut on him like a teenager.

Cullen responds by sucking Dorian’s fingers into his mouth, and Dorian is not sure exactly what he has done to become so blessed by this man. He thanks any deity listening for the ability to still breath and sets about putting his mouth on every inch of Cullen he can get to, as Cullen pulls off his fingers with a sickeningly obscene noise and throws his head, gripping the headboard and panting slightly.

“Oh, Maker’s breath,” Cullen groans as Dorian finally slides his mouth down his cock, and the sound alone is enough to get Dorian so hard it almost hurts. He slowly works Cullen with a patience and thoroughness born of one defiant enough to get the job done as slowly as possible in buildings filled with people who would genuinely set him ablaze him if they saw what he was doing. But Skyhold is not Tevinter, and Cullen is not the son of a rival family who stared at Dorian from across the room with barely concealed lust. He is so much more than that, and Dorian is content to slowly pull at the threads of Cullen’s carefully cultivated image of prim and properness until blond strands coated with sweat are curling at his forehead and he’s actively holding down his own hips to stop bucking into Dorian’s jaw.

“ _Fasta vass_ , Cullen,” Dorian pulls his mouth off of him with only a hint of regret, “you can do that, you know. I’m not going to break darling, I’ve done this before.” He kisses the inside of his thigh as Cullen lets out a shaky breath.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says softly, carding his hand through Dorian’s hair. Dorian smiles and places another soft kiss on his other thigh.

“You won’t,” Dorian replies and gets back to work. This time Cullen is not afraid to thrust upwards and groan loudly, and secretly Dorian loves it. Loves the way Cullen’s eyes darken when they make eye contact, loves the way he pants and can barely keep his hands away from Dorian’s hair, loves the way Cullen moans his name in a semi-reverential way that he’s sure half the scouts posted around the battlements can hear. And when Cullen clutches at the sheets, scrunches his face up and barks out he’s going to come exactly the same way he barks out orders in the morning fall-in, Dorian can barely hold himself together.

Dorian pulls his mouth off Cullen, who reaches for him and pulls him into a kiss, barely concealing his adoration of the fact that Dorian tastes like him. “Maker,” he pants between kisses, “want to do that for you. Want to make you feel how I just did,” and Dorian takes one look into his earnest eyes, blown wide with want for him, and lets his thighs fall open at the speed of light.

Cullen, Dorian finds, is excruciatingly detail-oriented in everything he does. He drills the soldiers in the morning with a precision almost unheard of, a side effect of his Templar training. He pores over reports until even the midnight oil has burnt out, searching for details others may have missed. He leans over the war table, his eyes filled with passion, as he takes Leliana’s tactics, picks them to pieces, and puts them back together with Cassandra by his side. And here, he pays attention to all parts of Dorian, slowly but surely licking his way up and down and taking his time make sure Dorian is comfortable as he pulls him towards the inevitable end. Truth be told, something is violently pricking at Dorian’s skin and he can barely keep still under Cullen’s tender yet firm ministrations.

When he comes and cries out loudly, Cullen stills and threads their fingers together, anchoring Dorian to this earth. Shakily, Dorian reaches out a hand and strokes a finger over Cullen’s prominent cheekbones. He hasn’t noticed until now how gaunt Cullen has been looking recently, and puts it down to the recent lyrium mania. Adaar had been particularly shaken when she had told Dorian about that episode, and Dorian didn’t want to do anything to exacerbate it. Cullen was getting better, he had said it himself a million times over the chessboard, and Dorian believed him.

“Come here,” he whispers, and Cullen cannot obey fast enough. They kiss slowly and languorously, hands exploring each other’s bodies as though the rest of the world does not exist beyond the bed they lie on and the sheets they’re rapidly becoming tangled in. They rest their foreheads together, and Dorian listens to Cullen’s breath rapidly evening out.

After a while, Dorian finally speaks. “We should clean up, go downstairs to the tavern,” he says quietly, and Cullen nods before pulling him in for one final kiss. They get up together, move together, wipe each other down and help each other get into their respective gears without so much a word. Cullen smiles as Dorian adjusts his various belts and buckles.

“I like that gear on you,” he comments, and Dorian raises an eyebrow.

“It does give a rather good view, doesn’t it Commander? Don’t get distracted now, the Inquisition doesn’t need its leading man drooling over the cards on the war table every time his mage walks past,” he counters and that, of all the comments he has uttered tonight, gets Cullen the deepest shade of red possible. It looks good on his normally pale skin.

“You’re…my mage?” he stammers, and Dorian stills before shrugging with an affectation of relaxation. His heart is hammering in his mouth and he has the sense of falling into something. Whether a black void or a plush bed, he can’t tell yet.

“That, my dear man, depends on what you want. We could end it here. I would walk away. It wouldn’t be easy,” he’s rambling now, just trying to get the words out, “but it would be far easier than trying to walk out when it’s too late. Or, we could be foolish.”

Cullen simply puts a hand around his waist and pulls him close. “Let’s be foolish,” he breaths, “because I don’t want to walk away from you, and I don’t want you to walk away from me.”

“It’s not such a bad thing,” Dorian smiles, “we’d both get a wonderful view either way,” but his grip tightens on Cullen and he places a gentle kiss on his lips. “Thank you, though. It’s nice to know I’m not the only complete idiot standing in this room.”

“Hey!” Cullen says, before grinning, “come on. Let’s go before I undo all the work I’ve just done on my armour and the Inquisitor bursts back in as she’s wont to do and finds something far more compromising.”

“Wouldn’t be all that terrible,” Dorian murmurs, but allows Cullen to pull him towards the ladders. As they make their way to the tavern, Cullen snakes his arm around Dorian’s waist and Dorian allows it. He knows Cullen is nervous about this, so he simply places his hand on top of Cullen’s and squeezes.

“I frigging knew it!” Sera squeals as they come into view, bouncing up and down on her seat, “I knew you were giving him puppy dog eyes Cullen! This is the best day of my life!”

“You owe me money, Bull,” Adaar comments candidly, slinging her arm round Iron Bull and staring twinkly-eyed at the both of them, pretending she hadn’t witnessed what she had an hour ago.

“Do I now, kadan? I suppose I can cough up by buying the next round,” Bull says and in a fluid motion pushes Adaar off him, ignoring her offended squawk, and makes his way to the bar, throwing a wink at Dorian who simply smirks at him.

Sitting in the warm tavern, surrounded by his people (Sera still excited, Bull and Krem discussing tactics with the Chargers singing in the background, Cole in the corner murmuring, Varric and Cassandra having a passionate discussion, Vivienne and Josephine looking haughty and regal despite the huge tankards in their hands, Solas an ever-present source of disdain) and Cullen a warm presence pressed into his side, occasionally throwing him small smiles, Dorian has never felt more at home. He exchanges witty banter with Adaar, buys Leliana a drink when she makes her customary appearance and insists she drinks it, and never stops staring adoringly at Cullen because he doesn’t want this moment to end. He doesn’t want to be back on the battlements with his breath curling into the fog, although he is grateful it allowed everything with Cullen to happen.

Grateful for everything that happened before this moment. In the years ahead, Dorian will ever appreciate the chess games, the need for space, Adaar’s pointed comments. He will appreciate everything Cullen does for him from now on, and will especially appreciate being swept off of his feet by Cullen in front of all the adoring crowds come to bear witness to the victors of the Inquisition. He can even give a grudging thanks to Corypheus, for throwing him and Cullen together when the whole world was going to shit.

But right now, his hand playing with the golden curls at the nape of Cullen’s neck and the other wrapped around a mug of ale, Dorian can only be thankful for small mercies. Can only smile at Adaar from across the table as Cullen slaps his knee in mirth at one of Krem’s dirtier jokes. Can only thank whoever is watching over him that his mind is refreshingly blank, free of the crushing guilt of all the deaths he caused or could have prevented. Can only continue to live this life he has been given, and watch as Cullen and himself blossom into what they will become, come rain or sunshine or anything vaguely demonic the world throws at him.

He’s ready, now. The warmth and happiness has fully consumed him. He is no longer the cold, shut-off man Tevinter almost made him.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated, and have a wonderful day.


End file.
